Prague in Black and Gold by Peter Demetz

“I wish to sketch a few selected chapters of a paradoxical history in which the golden hues of proud power and creative glory, of emperors, artists and scholars, and restive people, are not untouched with the black of suffering and the victims’ silence” (Demetz, p. xii).

Above is the key sentence in Peter Demetz’s preface to Prague in Black and Gold, which explains both the title and his approach to the city’s history. Prague was a distinctly multi-ethnic mix. Though it was divided largely between Czech and German populations, Jews comprised a significant minority (peaking at 25% of the citizenry in 1705), followed by a small but prominent population of Italians.

As a professor of  Literature at Yale and former resident of Prague, Demetz is true to his word, offering “sketches” rather than extensive, methodical chronology. After a tedious but foundation-setting first chapter on the origins of the city, the author presents some colorful depictions. King Otakar, Emperor Charles IV, Jan Hus, Rudolph II, Mozart and T.G. Masaryk, are all presented in individual chapters where they overlay, influence and are influenced by a changing cultural variety residents. Prague in Black and Gold is a series of moments set in historical order. Demetz will rush through 150 years within two pages, then will lovingly describe an episode or individual for most of a chapter. The author focuses on what he thinks is significant or what interests him personally. The Polish Kings, who ruled Prague from 1471 to 1526, get a few scattered sentences over two pages, while Mozart (who only visited Prague four times) rates a chapter.

Demetz writes what he likes, adding a great number of personal impressions to his history. But what he writes is insightful and not infrequently lyrical. There is little place for the personal among our modern, clinical, more scientific schools of history. Undeniably, an impersonal, empirical approach is most often going to yield a less prejudiced, factual representation of events. But Demetz’s highly individualistic account presents an astute angle that teaches much and is rarely boring.

One area where it would be helpful for Demetz to learn from more evidenced-based historians concerns documentation. There is a fine, chapter by chapter bibliography, but no footnotes or endnotes. With such undisciplined scholarship, a good writer can carelessly and convincingly fabricate. Notes are both evidence and markers. They permit information to be verified and keep a writer from straying too far from fact. Historians who do not supply evidence and make their books a collection of impressions or free-hand writing, are merely storytellers. For example, the execution of Jan Hus is presented as a calm, poetic and dignified end to a man of great integrity. After the wood around his stake was lit, the author writes that Hus simply “began to sing aloud.” Then, “when the flames blew in his face, he only prayed silently and after a while died” (Demetz, p. 145). It is hard to imagine that any human being could maintain such serene piety, without crying-out in anguish, while the flesh was being melted from his bones. Maybe Hus was capable of displaying a behavior different from the rest of humanity; but there is no way for us to know since the event is presented without citation.

Prague in Black and Gold is a pensive, melancholy rumination by a capable writer. Demetz feels deeply and struggles concerning his subject. Much of his conflicted perspective is rooted in his own history there: his Jewish mother deported to her death by the Nazis; his life interrupted by totalitarian Communist take-over and personal exile. The “paradoxical history” of creative “golden hues” and “black suffering” in Prague is also that of the author. While the personal invades and skews the historical picture, it presents a unique and often perspicacious view that only someone who has lived the black and gold can write.

Demetz, Peter. Prague in Black and Gold. New York: Hill and Wang, 1997.

Gay New York. Gender, Urban Culture and the making of the Gay Male World 1890 - 1940 by George Chauncey

George Chauncey presents a vivid portrait of New York gay male culture in the years between 1890 and 1940. It is a rich, highly documented study that relies on evidence ranging from interviews and biographical accounts by gay men, to the less friendly testimony of police spies and citizen vigilantes attempting to contain this milieu. The result is a panorama of gay neighborhoods and meeting places that thrived during this period.

The book begins with scenes of an active 1890s “subculture of the flamboyantly effeminate ‘fairies’…who gathered at Paresis Hall and other Bowery resorts.” Many of these men are described as prostitutes directly employed by the owners, or passively encouraged because they enticed customers. While Chauncey is quick to point-out that this “was not the only gay subculture in the city,” it does begin the book on a sensationalist note (Chauncey, p. 34). It might have been more useful to progress from interviews and biographies showing private gay home life, relationships and friendships, which would have illustrated the solid foundation of gay community, but the beginning would have been less exciting.

From this unfortunate start, Chauncey progresses improvingly by depicting the attitudes of men who defined themselves positively as “queers” and “fairies.” This counters the myth that all gay men at the time had internalized the dominant culture’s negative image of them. Self-esteem existed prior to the activism of our current period. The book progresses from the Gay Nineties through the 1930s, when a number of proudly gay entertainers headlined Greenwich Village and Harlem night spots widely attended by the straight community. Chauncey does not pretend that the 1890s through the 1930s were free of harassment and prejudice. He spends a great deal of time highlighting assaults upon the gay male community during this period. But one cannot deny the evidence of a thriving public and private gay culture before World War Two.

While the elaboration of life from home to street is fascinating and opens the reader to a world presumed invisible if non-existent, Chauncey is a historian with a wider purpose. A common assumption is that US gay culture progressed, in a linear trajectory, from concealment to free expression; from oppression to acceptance. “The Whiggish notion that change is always ‘progressive’ and that gay history in particular consists of a steady movement toward freedom continues to have appeal” to the LGBT community and its optimistic allies (Chauncey, p. 9). Chauncey offers evidence that gay male culture was more visible, tolerated and permeable to outsiders between 1890 and 1930 than it was between 1945 and 1960. He claims that a “post-war reaction has tended to blind us to the relative tolerance of the pre-war years” (Chauncey, p. 9). Our lack of knowledge about this early 20^th Century flourishing oasis is largely due to the success of post-war repression.

Despite the eye-opening, socially progressive purpose of the author’s work, his relative exclusion of lesbians will rankle with some readers. Chauncey self-consciously explains that “the book focuses on men because the differences between gay male and lesbian history and the complexity of each made it seem virtually impossible to write a book about both that did justice to each” (Chauncey, p. 27). This justification rings a bit hollow, since lesbians and gay men lived in the same neighborhoods and frequented many of the same social spaces.

Chauncey should be congratulated on his extensive coverage of African American life. Unlike his justification for excluding lesbians, Chauncey does not argue that the differences between Caucasian and African American history “made it seem virtually impossible to write a book about both.” While many white gay clubs excluded African American men, Harlem of the early 20^th Century has a bountiful history of gay neighborhood cohesion, clubs and drag balls, which the author portrays in enthusiastic detail.

Gay New York may have its flaws and blind spots, but it is a significant adjunct to LGBT history. The myths of invisibility, isolation and self-abnegation are aptly countered by its testimony. It depicts a strong, vibrant and cohesive community that thrived for a period before being driven underground by prejudice. While the author’s coverage of post-war suppression is difficult to read, it is an important episode to face. The chronology from a more open and tolerated gay culture to one that was repressed, warns us that the forces of intolerance are persistent. We must be vigilant in order to retain recent LGBT gains.

Chauncey, George. Gay New York. Gender, Urban Culture, and the Making of the Gay Male World 1890-1940. New York: Basic Books, 1994.

For review of a LGBT book on anarchist support for LGBT rights during this time in US history, see:
http://greatnonfictionbooks.blogspot.com/2014/01/free-comrades-anarchism-and.html

Pissarro. His Life and Work by Ralph Shikes and Paula Harper

Most biographies of Impressionists shower the reader with scenes of innovative artists standing in French fields, peacefully painting light and color with a wide palette. Certainly, there are enough such scenes in any book about Camille Pissarro. But because of who he was, the additional dimensions of his politics and ideas would have to be examined. Pissarro was an anarchist and an atheist of Jewish extraction, as well as a leading member of his generations’ most revolutionary artistic movement.

The authors who wrote this biography are politically suited to sympathetically cover Pissarro’s radicalism. Ralph Shikes was Public Relations Director for both The National Citizen’s Political Action Committee and Henry Wallace’s Progressive Party, as well as having written for “The Nation.” He established the Shikes Fellowship for Civil Liberties & Civil Rights, at Harvard Law School.* Paula Harper was described as "one of the first art historians to bring a feminist perspective to the study of painting and sculpture"**.

For politically-minded readers, the authors do not disappoint. They suffuse their entire portrait of the artist with discussion of his anarchist and radical views. Not only do they show Pissarro actively involved with fellow anarchists (primarily through his illustrations for periodicals, political contacts and quotes of topical views), but additionally they discuss his painting in radical political terms. “Artists who painted in a non-academic, unconventional style…were attracted to anarchism’s stress on the rejection of authority and the exaltation of the individual” (Shikes & Harper, p. 226). The authors analyze Pissarro’s figures, pointing out that the people he chose to represent were “people in humble circumstances, the class to which he was consistently attracted most of his life” (Shikes & Harper, p. 30). Even when he is painting scenes of natural beauty without humans, the artist is aware of his revolutionary motives: “Pissarro…noted, ‘Proudhon says in La Justice that love of earth is linked with revolution, and consequently with the artistic ideal’” (Shikes & Harper, p. 67).

Pissarro’s anarchism and sense of social justice are closely related to his atheism. “Pissarro, a convinced atheist, felt that religious beliefs were a dangerous hindrance to social reform” (Shikes & Harper, p. 157). While the biographers mention several times that Pissarro was an atheist, they fail to explore his thoughts on the subject beyond its political implications.

Not just his politics, but also his life and times are seen through a radical lens. Shikes and Harper portray the artist’s ancestors as Marrano Jews who escaped the Spanish Inquisition, immigrated to Portugal and from there to St Thomas in the Virgin Islands. In spite of this experience of persecution, Pissarro’s family owned two slaves until slavery was abolished in 1848 (Shikes & Harper, p. 20). Later in Paris, the authors present the artist and his views against a backdrop of changing political regimes, French imperialism in Indochina, the Paris Commune and the socio-political scene of Pissarro’s subculture. Towards the end of the book, and the end of Pissarro’s life, Shikes and Harper discuss the Dreyfus Affair and resulting anti-Semitism endured by their subject from both society at large and his artistic circle. Renoir and Degas were both anti-Dreyfusards and anti-Semites, whereas Sisley and Monet sided with progressives and Pissarro on the issue (Shikes & Harper, pp. 304-309).

For an artistically sensitive, apolitical reader, this book would not be the best of choices unless that person were seeking to expand her horizons. By the same token, Pissarro's life itself would not be an enjoyable topic for any apolitical reader. But those who are art-focused, and political from any perspective, will find a great deal to activate their thinking in this book.

Shikes, Ralph E. & Harper, Paula. Pissarro. His Life and Work. New York: Horizon Press, 1980.

*"Ralph E. Shikes Is Dead at 79; Publisher, Editor and Art Writer." The New York Times. The New York Times, 31 Mar. 1992. (Web. 10 Oct. 2014).

**Grady, Denise. "Paula Hays Harper, Art Historian, Is Dead at 81." The New York Times. The New York Times, 25 June 2012. (Web. 10 Oct. 2014).

The Great Influenza by John M Barry.

John M. Barry is an impressive individual. His ability to self-educate while writing books has led to appointments on various policy boards as an expert advisor. The publication of Rising Tide: The Great Mississippi Flood of 1927 and How It Changed America, resulted in Barry’s appointment to The Southeast Louisiana Flood Protection Authority East and The Louisiana Coastal Protection and Restoration Authority. The work that this review focuses upon, The Great Influenza, led to his work on the federal government’s Infectious Disease Board of Experts. Without any background in medicine, public policy or geoscience, this is quite a set of achievements.

The Great Influenza demonstrates that Barry’s gifts are not limited to learning alone, but include an ability to impart that learning in an engaging manner. It is a highly informative, exploration of the struggle to defeat a pandemic by the best minds in US medical science. The book begins by examining the progress in medical science up until the point of the pandemic’s beginnings, then introduces “the warriors” who fought it.  Barry’s insightful portraits of the scientists involved serve to acquaint the reader with brilliant and high-achieving individuals in whose quest one becomes involved. This is followed by a useful explanation of influenza’s pathophysiology. Subsequent chapters comprise an interspersion of scientific investigation and experiences of communities during the epidemic’s progress.

Unfortunately, there is an overriding ethnocentrism to the book. Despite the worldwide effects of the 1918 pandemic, Barry only sparsely covers research efforts in Europe. While it is undoubtedly true that many in European medical science were consumed by the war effort, there were still independent researchers exploring a cure for influenza. Also, Barry’s portraits of communities devastated by and responding to the epidemic are almost entirely US examples. The rest of the world suffered as well. This ethnocentrism even taints the author’s representation of theory. Barry states “epidemiological evidence suggests that a new influenza virus originated in Haskell County Kansas” (Barry, p. 92), without mentioning that this is only one of many possible scenarios. In fact, the most recent theories indicate that the disease originated in China (Vergano, p. 1). If the book were entitled Influenza in the United States, it could be considered comprehensive. But that is not the case.

In service to engaging his reader, the author sometimes goes over the top to elicit emotion. “An infection is an act of violence; it is an invasion, a rape” (Barry, p. 107). This is not responsible history or science reporting. But this emotionalism is occasional. Barry generally captures the drama without losing the thread of history. He writes absorbingly and presents the information capably. Writing ability cannot be underestimated. If a historian cannot keep the attention of their reader, the information she wishes to convey will be lost to all but the most intrepid student.

The Great Influenza concludes with a discussion of contemporary influenza scares and epidemics. Ever the policy board expert, Barry emphasizes the importance of governments and media being honest with the public. He talks about how efforts to prevent panic, by hiding the seriousness of the 1918 occurrence, caused people to mistrust government and media when the true extent of the crisis was revealed to them. Government and media could no longer communicate with a suspicious public, hampering collective efforts to contain the spread. Through his extensive study and subsequent national positions, Barry is uniquely positioned to offer useful approaches to combat future epidemics.

Barry, John M. The Great Influenza. New York: Penguin Group Inc., 2009.

Vergano, Dan. "1918 Flu Pandemic That Killed 50 Million Originated in China, Historians Say." National Geographic. National Geographic Society, 23 Jan. 2014. Web. 28 Sept. 2014.

Alexander von Humboldt. A Metabiography by Nicholaas A. Rupke.

Metabiography studies the relationship between the individual portrayed in a biography and the socio-political context of the writer. It is an offshoot of metahistory, as first elucidated by Hayden White in his 1973 Metahistory: The Historical Imagination in Nineteenth-century Europe, which views the relationship of a period or event to the socio-political context of the historian. The focus of such examinations is more upon what they reveal about the writer, her time and her influences, than what they say about the subject.

Nicholaas A. Rupke admirably performs an immense task by both instructing his readership about what metabiography is, as well as tackling the subject of Alexander von Humboldt and his representation in the continually changing landscape of Germany. He begins by discussing the conflicting perceptions of Humboldt during his lifetime, when both the revolutionaries of 1848 and their opposition, the monarchists, laid claim to Humboldt. Both have a point; Humboldt was a courtier of King Frederick William IV, while simultaneously writing letters that were critical of the king and democratic in their ideals. Rupke follows Humboldt scholarship through Germany’s many periods of change.

Perhaps the most profound example of differing socio-political perceptions of Humboldt is exemplified by the whiplash speed with which images of the scientist were altered between World War II and the Post-War period. During the war, the Nazi Party laid claim to Humboldt as an example of German superior genius. After the war, as Germany was divided between East and West, two differing national perceptions of the subject developed. East Germans emphasized features like his abolitionist values (as a criticism of the US), his work as a mining inspector (to develop his proto-communist worker credentials) and his anti-colonial remarks (a criticism of Western European powers). In West Germany, scholars emphasized Humboldt’s familiarity with the West (i.e. his living in France and writing major works in French), and his relationships with cosmopolitan Jews in order to de-Nazify him.

During the course of this book, my primary question was “Who is monitoring the socio-political influences of the metabiographer? This is not an attempt to play “gotcha” with a superior writer. Rupke is a brilliant, careful historian. But even the best writer will let biases slip-out if given a long enough project. The following is in the spirit of Rupke’s own self-reflection, where he states “this book itself now becomes part of the raw material for further metastudy” (Rupke, p. 217).

As a Dutch historian of science, who has worked in Britain and the US, Rupke’s Western European and Cold War views are visible in his work. In his discussion of post-war Germany, he refers to East German studies of Humboldt as “shrill political rhetoric” (Rupke, p. 141). While he does credit East German efforts in establishing “the most extensive basis of primary sources” (Rupke, p. 175), Rupke also claims that “West Germans were not under pressure to argue the legitimacy of their state” (Rupke, p. 144). I doubt this latter claim is so. Let us use the author’s own example of Werner Heisenberg, who was the first post-war president of the Humboldt Foundation. Prior to the war, Heisenberg expressed his admiration for Jewish scientist Albert Einstein. During the war, Heisenberg did not join the Nazi Party; but he did work for the Nazis on Hitler’s project to build an atomic bomb.  This was an individual in a conflicted relationship with the Nazi Party, employed to direct Humboldt scholarship by a nation equally conflicted in its relationship with the Nazi Party. The resulting scholarship was designed to “serve the cause of rapprochement between…West Germany and its occupying powers” (Rupke, p. 141). How is this not a “pressure to argue the legitimacy of their state”?

Another element of Rupke’s study that expresses a Western European/US bias is his characterization of “Spanish-American interest in Humboldt, taking at times the form of hero worship” (Rupke, p. 134). While this may be true in some quarters, there is also a strong anti-colonial tendency in Latin American historiography where some native authors would be unlikely to regard a white western explorer as a hero. However, a Germanophile westerner from a colonizing culture may not hear these voices and create a balanced view.

Thirdly, there is an interesting passage where Rupke refers to German citizen Carl Troll as a “collaborator” with the Nazis. This is an unusual choice of words, designed to separate “passive fellow travelers” from “active collaborators” (Rupke, p. 156). But a collaborator is someone who aids a foreign, invading power in its domination of a country. The Nazi Party was not a foreign power victimizing Germany, it was an elected political body supported by the majority of German citizens. It would be hard to imagine a Jewish historian defining wartime German citizens as collaborators. Conversely, it is probably difficult for a historian working among Germans to avoid insulating himself from the notion that this was once a nation which caused such widespread harm.

So Rupke’s book presents examples of how metabiographies or metahistories themselves are influenced by socio-political environment. Further, even how one views the purpose of metabiography is altered by environmental influences. Rupke chose to study Humboldt. He did so in the context of a Germany, whose politics have changed so dramatically and rapidly in the course of his lifetime, that he concluded “the task of metabiography is primarily to explore the fact and the extent of the ideological embeddedness of biographical portraits, not to settle the issue of authenticity” (Rupke, p. 214). Ideology is a system of ideas, not necessarily a system of beliefs, which are based more upon religious feeling than intellectual conclusions. If Rupke were performing a metabiography of Charles Darwin in the context of Kansas, would he change his characterization of the task of metabiography to exploring “the fact and extent of the ideological and belief-based embeddedness of biographical portraits”? Since Rupke himself states that “the issues we raise come from contemporaneous anxieties and interests” (Rupke, p. 215), it is clear that even the defined purpose of metabiography is susceptible to such influences.

History is a tangle of individual points of view on periods, events and people. The methods of metahistory and metabiography seek to untangle this fascinating mess of perspectives. But in the end, they simply represent the views of more individuals who have their own biases and personal colorings when observing historical evidence. It is only an ideal that historians employ the methods of science; using empirical evidence and primary sources to draw conclusions. Aside from the most basic conclusions (i.e. “We have evidence that Alexander von Humboldt was born in Berlin), the ideas engendered by the evidence are products of individuals with their own socio-political backgrounds. For this reason, history is as much Art as Science, (but not in a good way). Art is all about the individual perspective of the artist in a creation. History is a combination of evidence with personal creation. All of this means that a reader of history is required to have a more active role than simply reading and taking-in what one is being told. The reader is required to parse the Art from the Science; the personal coloring from the empirical evidence. This is the only way for one to determine wherein lays historical accuracy. The reader is actually required to be a historian of the piece that they are reading. One must ask whether a statement is backed-up with reference to a primary source that directly states or proves what the author claims, or whether the statement is a product of the author’s imagination. The answer will not always be clear. To cloud matters further, one must also take into account one’s own socio-political background and explore how one’s own ideas are colored. But this is the challenge of history and where active learning occurs. When one reads a history book, one learns not only some facts about the past; one learns how to investigate. The ability to investigate, to ask questions and go about answering them, is a valuable tool for an active mind; a tool that will serve a reader in most other aspects of life.

The study of history has been in the midst of a transitional period for a few decades; at least since Hayden White first began exploring the socio-political perspectives of the historians themselves. It is a somewhat confusing period where historians can no longer just tell stories and readers can no longer just read them. Since the examination of bias, based upon the historian’s and the reader’s socio-political views entered the equation, the study of history has been in a crisis (but not in a bad way). A crisis is a turning point; a decisive or critical moment. We are in the midst of more questions than answers about historiography. I’m not sure where this period of questioning will lead. But eventually someone smarter than me will develop a few useful answers and strategies. These will result in intellectual growth and new ideas about how to approach history for more accurate portrayals. For all we know, the kernel of truth may be somewhere in our biology; at least we all have that in common. Then again, maybe this is all just something I’d say because I’m merely a product of my socio-political environment.

Rupke, Nicholaas A. Alexander von Humboldt. A Metabiography. Frankfurt am Main: Peter Lang GmbH, 2005.

The House of Rothschild by Niall Ferguson.

The House of Rothschild is a two volume banking history. While the enthusiast of social history or biography will still find useful information, the main focus is on the rise of the first international bank. Those seeking a “Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous” show should look elsewhere. While this offering lacks sensationalism, there is a good deal of drama: Political and economic relationships, strategies for overcoming the competition and the rise from a poor Frankfurt underclass to eminent positions of influence in Europe, provide genuine plot without superficial glitz.

The research that went into the writing of this tome is impressive. Ferguson scoured the archives of London, Paris and Moscow. The richest trove of information he uses as evidence, is correspondence between the partners and relatives. There are 5830 source notes and 53 pages of bibliography between the two volumes. There had to be days for the author where a mallet to the head appeared preferable to reading another letter.

Given the importance of economics to the subject, one will need to have either an understanding of monetary investment instruments, or a desire to Google frequently. To offer a personal example, as a representative of the business impaired, (even with the assistance of the internet), I found myself periodically confused. Sometimes I could not even understand how one or another strategy could yield profit. Ferguson does not dumb-down the math for his audience. But those who have far to go in their understanding of economics will learn a great deal in the course of these two volumes if they are willing to apply themselves. Since finance is an often neglected area by history enthusiasts, a true education that expands one’s repertoire of ideas can take place. Those who already have the tools of commerce will find this topic easier and more entertaining.

Because this story is about money, and because the Rothschild Bank placed its acquisition above every other concern, there are readers who will find the company’s amorality repellent.  There are plenty of political histories and people’s histories that will discuss the victims of such policies. While there is a satisfaction to venting moral outrage, that is neither the purpose of this book nor the job of a historian. Ferguson does a heroic job of maintaining a neutral tone while quoting callous letters between the Rothschild brothers. These include their warm relationship with Klemens Von Metternich (who made the Hapsburg Empire a police state), their secret deal to sell guns to Russia so that the Czar could more easily suppress Polish independence and other profitable activities. Like a cheetah, engineered by evolution to run down and kill antelope, the Rothschild international bank was a perfect, ruthless animal. One can admire or abhor this bank’s heartless indifference to any consideration other than money, as one wishes. That said, it is important for a balanced individual to read books on both the cheetahs and the antelopes of history.

Ferguson does spend time discussing anti-Semitism. But again, this has nothing to do with moral outrage. Anti-Semitism is a topic of the book because it affected the banking business and the Rothschild’s ability to secure contracts. Ferguson makes it an issue because most gentiles who regarded or participated in the transactions of the Rothschilds made it an issue. The author keeps his eye on the business ball.

While Ferguson’s abilities are laudable, no one should ever expect perfection. The author occasionally stands in awe of his subject’s power and gives them too much credit for influence. When French Foreign Minister Jacques Lafitte supports war with Austria, a concerned James Rothschild approaches King Louis Philippe. A week later, Lafitte resigns. The author interprets “It would appear that James’s ‘talking to the king had the desired effect,’” (Ferguson, v.1, p. 240), as if James’s intervention was the only determining factor in the resignation. Additionally, there are maddeningly frequent quotations of novels by Benjamin Disraeli. Yes, Disraeli knew the family intimately and fictionalized them in his novels. But “fictionalized” is the operative word. These many quotations are not facts of history. One cannot determine facts from them.  However, my not infrequent nitpicking testifies to how enthusiastically I read his long history. Ferguson’s flair for writing and ability to keep the story engaging causes one to become absorbed in his narrative. A historian who can make a banking history come alive for a business impaired reader cannot be ignored.

Ferguson, Niall. The House of Rothschild. New York: Viking Penguin, 1998.

Eminent Victorians by Lytton Strachey

Eminent Victorians is Lytton Strachey’s 1918 British best seller. It contains the biographies of four people considered to have exemplified the era’s morality and standards (Henry Edward Manning, Florence Nightingale, Thomas Arnold and Charles Gordon). In its time, this book was a quiet innovation. It challenged the iconic worship of the 19^th Century’s upright British saints. It provided an alternative to the “standard biography,” which “commemorate[s] the dead” with “ill-digested masses of material” (Strachey, p. viii).  As a result, it reads like a grouping of literary profiles with more art than history.

Strachey wrote with an arch humor that will leave a wicked smile on your face. He stealthily assassinates Lord Acton as “a historian to whom learning and judgment had not been granted in equal proportions” (Strachey, p. 100). He slowly roasts Lord Hartington as a man beloved by his listeners for being dull: “It was the greatest comfort…they could always be absolutely certain that he would never…be either brilliant or subtle, or surprising or impassioned or profound…as they sat listening to his speeches, in which considerations of stolid plainness succeeded one another with complete flatness…they felt…supported by the colossal tedium” (Strachey, p. 315). It’s funny, but it’s not history.

An historian might find herself a bit frustrated with the presentation and quality of information. In service to creating a tasteful work, Strachey sometimes skimps on the facts or passes-over issues that would cause his readers to blush. Florence Nightingale and Sidney Herbert had a close working relationship and a deep friendship. The author describes this relationship as “an intimacy so utterly untinctured not only by passion itself but by the suspicion of it” (Strachey, p. 167). With all due respect to the chastity of Ms. Nightingale and the marital fidelity of Mr. Herbert, there is no way Strachey could have known this.

Though his style is largely restrained, amusing, and dilettantish, Strachey can be relentless when he has an opinion. One central theme throughout the biographies is that the idols of Victorian England are somewhat cracked. Cardinal Manning is not just the genial saint of British Catholicism; he is also a cruel, politically manipulative autocrat (Strachey, p. 86). Florence Nightingale is not at all the passive “Lady with the Lamp;” she is a driven professional whom, the author claims, pushed Sidney Herbert into an early grave (Strachey, pp. 181-2). Thomas Arnold, historically portrayed as a reformer of boys’ education, is shown to be responsible for a litany of educational missteps, not the least of which was to forestall science instruction (Strachey, p. 213). General Gordon was both a military hero and a disobedient soldier whose rashness caused his own death (Strachey, p. 283). All of this is said more softly and with a greater mass of verbiage than I have space to allow. Strachey does not pointedly hammer at the idols. He cautiously taps, relentlessly taps, until the statue has a crack and the imperfection is annoyingly obvious to those who prefer their icons flawless.

One may argue, as some did, that his characterizations are unfair and his citations sparse. But in the present, one does not read Eminent Victorians for its historical accuracy. Some of the information may be interesting, and some of it may even be true. But more important to the modern reader are an illustration of what early 20^th Century English readers appreciated and an admiration of some fine, subtle, sardonic writing.

Strachey, Lytton. Eminent Victorians. New York: Random House, 1962.

For review of a book on the British Empire during this time period, see:
http://greatnonfictionbooks.blogspot.com/2014/03/empire-by-niall-ferguson.html

For a politically progressive history of London, see:
http://greatnonfictionbooks.blogspot.com/2013/02/a-peoples-history-of-london-by-german.html